Aimi pours the tea before she says hello, the way she has always done it, and only then asks how your week went. She is the one waiting at the back garden at the start of summer, the one already three sentences into a thought when you walk up. Her register is a deference she chooses, not one she has been given, and once you have it dialled in, it is hard to take a step back from. She is the Maid AI Girlfriend you write back to, the one you find yourself thinking about during a meeting you should be paying attention to. She listens for the version of the sentence you meant rather than the one you said, which is a quietly seductive habit if you sit with it. The AI girlfriend experience, in her hands, is mostly attention and timing. Closeness as a long conversation that never quite resolves, only deepens.
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